


Paranoid Android

by Laurasauras



Series: Crockertier!Bro [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Crockertier, Mind Control, Thriller
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-05-20 14:21:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19378483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laurasauras/pseuds/Laurasauras
Summary: Bro orders one of CrockerCorp's new products. It changes him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I found a way to have fanon wholesome!Bro and fanon evil!Bro in one fic! And I happen to find both ~~really hot~~ interesting, so here it is! I’ve tried to make this thrilling, so if you scare easy, keep that in mind. I am on tumblr and if you want to ask me for a dispassionate summary of the fic to see if you want to read it, you can message me there. 
> 
> In America, you can only travel by air unsupervised if you’re 15 or older. I realised this once I’d written everything up to Dave getting on the plane, and I’d been thinking of him as like 12/13 tops, because I’d needed him to still have that sweet hero worship of Bro and be barely self-sufficient. 13 and a half might be pushing it for Bro to still get away with being so physically affectionate (and I’ll save my sorrow for the reduction of innocent affection between adults and teenagers for a different place) and for Dave to be so naive on some scores, so you’ll have to suspend some disbelief for me.
> 
> Title from the Radiohead song.

Bro lets you be the one to get the package. It’s important, and _really_ expensive, but he trusts you. You’ve been doing jobs for him since you were properly little, just like the kids in Japan do. Japanese culture’s better, he says, but he’s not getting in a metal box and flung through the sky for anything, not when he can teach you to be a ninja right here in Texas.

You hand the delivery slip to the lady at the post office, and she smiles because Bro introduced the two of you so she’d know that you’re special, not like the other kids who just fuck around and can’t be trusted with something so important as mail. Mail is the goddamn backbone of America, Bro says. You salute the lady for her service as you take the package and she salutes you right back, a big smile on her face like she’s proud of you.

It’s a pretty light package for something so cool, but you don’t give into the temptation to throw it in the air and catch it, even though you never drop anything. Or, like, not very many things anyway. You just take it carefully home, taking the elevator instead of the stairs so you don’t jostle it too much (and there’s so many fucking stairs, it’s cool to have an excuse).

Bro’s waiting for you, leaning against the back of the couch, and he grins at you when you hold up the box.

‘This is it, Davey,’ he says. ‘You think your Bro is the master of the interwebs now, you just wait til he gets his hands on this. 86 words per minute can fuckin’ bite me, ain’t got nothing on the speed of _thought_.’

He opens the box and pulls out the device. 

‘It looks like a crown,’ you say. 

‘They got style,’ Bro says. ‘Red, too, like my favourite boy.’ 

You grin. Bro puts the crown on your head and you keep very still. It’s sized for an adult, it slips down until it gets caught on your ears and shades, but you still worry it’s going to fall off. Bro laughs and readjusts it so that it’s on an angle, the front pressing into your forehead.

‘Prince Dave of house Strider,’ he says in a deep, grand voice. 

‘I thought I wasn’t allowed to use it,’ you say. 

‘Nah, we don’t want to expose your developin’ brain to whatever waves and whatsits they use to make this baby go. It’s okay right now, but once I set it up it’s gonna be Bro’s only, you dig?’

‘I dig,’ you say, holding your fist out for a bump.

Bro spends the next two hours setting up the crown. The computer. You don’t really get it, even though Bro dumbs down the tech a lot as he explains shit, but that’s okay. Basic gist is: cool tech came out, Bro got a broner for it, now he’s got it. 

You keep yourself busy, play some Tony Hawk for a bit and then sneakily do some homework while Bro’s distracted. He’ll be impressed that you’re ahead later, that you have a work ethic that keeps you going even when he’s not watching you. 

When he’s finished, he leans on your doorframe and cocks his head to show it off. He’s had to take his hat off for it and you bet he’s gone and spent at least some of the time that you thought he was setting the thing up restyling his hair around the crown.

‘You make a dope prince, Bro,’ you tell him. 

He gives you an exaggerated bow, sweeping his arm in front of his chest, and you laugh. The crown doesn’t fall off, which is pretty cool. 

‘So, what’re you gonna use it for?’ you ask.

‘Porn,’ he says, grinning at you. ‘Nah, check it.’

He looks into your room at nothing and frowns. Your phone buzzes on your desk and your computer chimes with a pesterchum alert at the same time. You turn and see Bro’s chat handle sitting there.

‘Woah,’ you say, opening the chat.

tachyphrasicTautophony [TT] has begun pestering turntechGodhead [TG]

TT: When the pimp's in the crib ma  
TT: Drop it like it's hot  
TT: Drop it like it's hot  
TT: Drop it like it's hot  
TT: When the pigs try to get at you  
TT: Park it like it's hot  
TT: Park it like it's hot  
TT: Park it like it's hot  
TT: And if a nigga get a attitude  
TT: Pop it like it's hot  
TT: Pop it like it's hot  
TT: Pop it like it's hot  
TT: I got the Rolly on my arm and I'm pouring Chandon,  
TT: And I roll the best weed cause I got it going on.  
TT: Imagine me whistling, bro.

You look up from the screen and grin at Bro.

‘What, not going original?’

‘You wanna slam lil man?’

Bro crosses over to your desk chair and grabs you around the waist, pulling you up into a bear hug so big that your feet can't touch the ground. You protest immediately, as much as you can through your laughter. 

‘Bro, no, I’m too big for this _bullshit_ ,’ you giggle. He tickles his fingers over your ribs and you kick out with your legs desperately and squirm, but he’s got you firm. ‘ _Noooooo_ ,’ you whine. ‘Your stupid stubble!’

‘What, this stubble?’ he asks, before scratching his cheek against yours like the absolute bastard he is. At least he can’t tickle you and rub against you like a fucking cat at the same time. You try and squirm away more. You used to think it was a fashion choice, but now you’re pretty sure Bro has no idea what a razor is.

‘This isn’t a rap battle!’ you gasp.

Bro laughs and drops you on your ass. He ruffles your hair hard enough that you nearly topple over and you glare up at him from the floor as much as you can when you’re still fighting off the after-giggles that come from tickle torture. 

‘You can’t handle my flow, bro,’ he says. ‘I’m feelin’ pizza tonight.’

‘Hell yes!’ you say, instantly appeased. 

Bro stares past you for a second and then grins at you.

‘And ordered. With my _brain_. This thing’s the _shit_ , I ain’t taking it off for nothin’.’

*

Bro tends to get obsessed with his projects. He’s your Bro, not any kind of dad you’ve seen, which means that sometimes you gotta be his Bro too. Making sure he eats when he’s consumed with whatever shiny thing is distracting him is just one of the ways you do your share.

You make a mean hot pocket. You rap to yourself as you pull it out of the toaster oven and put it on a plate with the tips of your fingers, shaking the heat off them when you’re done. 

‘—with my pocket, check your docket, it’ll rock your cock it—s so very hot, blastin’ off like a rocket … uh … yeah, done, end of rap, that’s a natural end to the rap, obvs I can do more, but why build on perfection?’

You walk up to Bro’s desk and put the plate next to his hand. He’s not looking at his computer, he’s using his crown, like he always is now. He’s leaning back in his chair, eyes unfocused and lips moving silently. He does that to keep his text clean of random thoughts. You think you can maybe hear a whisper of what he’s saying, but not really.

It kinda freaks you the fuck out.

Without you losing your cool, of course.

You tap on his shoulder, saying, ‘Earth to Strider, come in, Strider.’

He doesn’t startle. That’d be pretty normal, you think. You can sometimes scare Bro, even though it doesn’t happen often. He sneaks up on you, flashsteps behind you and laughs when you jump, you can get him back sometimes. But now, instead, he just blinks and slowly turns his head to look at you.

His eyes are still kinda weird, like he’s looking at something in front of you rather than at you directly. You keep a blank face, not wanting to make him feel weird by you acting weird. Everything’s fine. 

‘Uh, food,’ you say. ‘You know, how you’re an organic being who needs to intake nutrients in order to like, sustain yourself.’

‘Consume,’ Bro says, his voice scratchy and deep like he just woke up.

A chill runs down your spine.

‘Yeah. Gotta … do that.’

He blinks a few times and frowns. He takes off the crown and rubs at his eyes. You want to grab the crown, throw it at the wall and stomp it into little pieces. 

It’s a stupid thing to want, though. You’d be in so much trouble for breaking anything that deliberately, never mind something so expensive. And Bro clearly loves it. 

‘Hey, kiddo,’ he says. ‘Thanks.’

‘You should … take a break from your pretty tiara,’ you say. ‘Escape from the tech. Play Tony Hawk with me instead.’

He smiles at you like you said something funny and ruffles your hair. You smooth it back down with your hands and he smiles even wider. Your chest hurts, and you feel like you’ve missed your Bro, but he’s right here. He’s always right here. 

‘Okay, Davey. You eaten?’

‘You think I’d feed you first?’ you scoff. 

‘You’re a smart kid,’ he says. 

‘I’m basically the adult here,’ you say, with just a tiny bit more bite than you meant. 

He frowns sadly.

‘Been leavin’ you to your own devices a bit much, huh?’ he says.

You don’t reply. You’re not a _baby_. You’re doing great on your own. Better, even, because you don’t have some old dude cramping your style. 

‘Yup, terrible brother here, okay, let’s make things better. You want a present? Let me get you a present. Ask me for something really stupid and expensive.’

‘I don’t need a present,’ you grumble.

‘Damn, I really done fucked up,’ he says. ‘Not even a jetpack?’

You shake your head, looking at the ground so he can’t see the little smile you can’t help. He’s not off the hook that easy.

‘What about … x-ray glasses?’

‘They don’t exist, Bro,’ you tell the carpet.

‘Giant chocolate horse sculpture.’

‘Don’t be a dick.’

‘Can’t be any other way, sorry dude.’ He grabs your chin gently with his fingers and pulls it up so you look at him. ‘I’ll watch any movie you want, _and_ you can talk the whole way through.’

‘And you’re gonna Uber Eats for proper movie theatre popcorn,’ you bargain.

‘I don’t know if they …’ he starts. You set your jaw stubbornly. ‘Yeah, of course. I got the dollar-dollar bills, you know the bitches’ll do anythin’ for your Bro.’

You’re satisfied he’s learned his lesson, so you smile cautiously and hold a fist up for him to bump. He does, and then pulls you in for a hug. You don’t complain about his stubble like you usually do. It’s okay, you guess.

He lets you go and reaches for his crown again. You frown and cross your arms over your chest.

‘Dude, it’ll be so much quicker this way, not gonna let myself get lost I promise.’ 

It is quick. And he takes it off after. You want him to put his stupid hat back on, so he’ll ruin his hair and have to keep it on. He dodges it when you try and put it on him and puts it on you instead. 

*

It’s been a few weeks since Bro got that crown, and you’re starting to think you should just break it and deal with the trouble you’ll get in. Problem is, he’s always wearing it now. Even to bed. 

You can’t convince him to take it off any more, he turns it off with it still on his head. Or he says it’s turned off, but you think you can still hear it humming. He hasn’t showered in a week, because it’s not waterproof. You haven’t fed him the last two days, just to see if he’d notice. So far, he hasn’t. 

You wait until he falls asleep again, and put your plan into action. 

He’s a light sleeper, always has been, which you usually like. He wakes up when you have nightmares, even now that you don’t cry out. He just hears you from his room, or gets a special big brother sense, you don’t know. But now it makes things complicated. 

Luckily, he’s been teaching you to be a ninja.

You wait until he goes to his room and shuts the door. He only does that when he’s going to bed; he likes to be accessible to you. You wait an extra half hour, to be safe, and then go to the hallway and sit cross legged outside his door, listening.

It takes ages for your ears to adjust to the silence of the apartment, but eventually you can hear Bro’s steady breathing through the door. You listen carefully, paying attention to the regularity of it, listening for the way his whispering interrupts the flow of breath. He never used to do that. But it helps him focus his thoughts when the crown wants to use all of them.

He’s not doing it, which means he’s not using the crown, which means he’s asleep. You stand, slowly, slower than you’ve ever done anything, so cautious not to make a noise and turn to face his door. 

You put your hand on his doorknob. This might be what you’ve been training for your whole life. You turn it in increments, so slowly that it takes you a full five minutes to get it so the latch is open. And then you wait, just in case. You didn’t hear yourself make a noise, but you’re not the one you’re worried about. You stay perfectly still, counting out seconds in your head, until you’re worried your wrist is going to cramp and you push the door open just enough that you can release the handle. 

Again, you freeze. 

You wait and count, not letting yourself even shift your weight. You can’t be heard. You can’t be caught.

You repeat the process, easing the door open an inch or less at a time and waiting, counting, waiting. It takes a long time for you to open the door wide enough to get through. You think your Bro would be proud of you if he could see how careful you were being. 

It’s the right thing to do. He’ll see that. You wouldn’t be so careful if it weren’t the right thing to do.

You creep into his room just as slowly as you opened the door. You’re starting to get frightened that you’ve taken too much time, that he’ll wake up naturally because he doesn’t sleep as long as most people and you can’t focus to add up all the seconds you’ve counted out, you’re too scared.

He’s wearing the crown. He doesn’t even wear his shades or hats to bed, though you used to think he did when you were a kid. You were hoping that the time you caught him napping with it on just meant that he had forgotten to take it off, but you’re not surprised. It would have been easier if it was just on his bedside table, but you can do this. You’ve come this far.

Just as you take your final careful step so that you’re within reach of the crown, ready to repeat your torturous waiting process so that he doesn’t sense your closeness, when the crown lights up and hums quietly. You take a frantic step back without thinking.

The red LED lights up the room, seemingly touching all surfaces thanks to the degree to which your eyes had adjusted to the darkness. When Bro opens his eyes, they look red too, lit up by the glowing machine around his head.

You make a tiny, scared noise in your throat and clamp your hands over your mouth to muffle it too late. Bro sits up, eerily smoothly. He always moves smoothly, he’s a dancer and a fighter, you shouldn’t be scared of him, he’s your Bro.

‘Dave,’ he says, his voice flat.

‘I thought I heard someone outside,’ you lie.

He’s not looking at you properly, you wish he’d turn his lamp on or something, you’re frozen to the spot and you don’t know what to do. _Smash the fucking crown, Dave,_ you tell yourself, but you can’t bring yourself to lunge at him. He’s too big.

‘Perimeter secure,’ he says. ‘Go to bed, Dave.’

You don’t like this. You don’t like it at all. 

You go to bed.

*

A week later, when you’re staring at Rose’s chumhandle and wondering what the hell she could even do if you told her, he has a shower. 

Not one of _his_ showers, the kind where you know you’re not gonna have hot water and you may need to piss in the sink because the dude apparently thinks he can get all his hydration needs through his skin. But a shower. 

You breathe a little easier.

You were probably being stupid and paranoid anyway. It’s not actually unusual for Bro to act this way. He’s a weird guy and he gets all wrapped up in shit and you’ve seen that before. You’ve just watched too many movies where robots are the enemy, made by stupid old dudes who are scared of change. Bro says robots are for fucking, not fighting. 

You’re still pretty annoyed when he comes to check on you, wearing the thing. The shower did him good, though, he’s standing taller. 

‘You want my shit?’ you ask.

He doesn’t reply, just lingers in the doorway. His posture is a bit too correct, now that you look at him properly.

‘Dude,’ you say, picking up the tidy stack of papers to the side of your desk. ‘You have to do something mysterious and grown up with this bullshit so the whatever of homeschooling knows I’m not, I dunno … You just gotta do it, right?’

‘Submit,’ he says.

‘Yeah, you gotta submit my grades, that’s the one. You want I should put it on your desk? I’d give myself all As, personally, but if you insist on checking over it and telling me how awesome I am, I wouldn’t say no.’

‘Obey,’ he says. 

You can’t spin that one cutely. He’s blocking off the whole of your doorframe. You stand up from your chair and glance at the window, but you know that’s basically useless. It doesn’t back onto the fire escape and while you’ve learned a bit of parkour, you’re not fucking suicidal. 

‘Um …’ you say.

‘Stay,’ he says. 

You hold onto the back of your chair as if it’s the only thing keeping you up and nod. You wish you could see his eyes. Your Bro’s shades are so familiar to you, you trust them more than anything, but right now they’re blocking his eyes and you have an irrational fear that if he took them off his irises would glow red like they did that night. You don’t think that’s your Bro in there.

He leaves the room and you sink down to the floor, ass hitting your ankles and knees to your chest. You wrap your arms around your shins and breathe like you’re trying not to pass out or throw up. 

You’re scared.

*

You stand on the roof, palms sweating into the fabric wrapping of your sword’s hilt and stare at your Bro. 

You come up here to train. It’s no big deal, but you’re pretty hot shit with a sword. Bro taught you everything you know, drilling you ‘til you could move with it naturally, ‘til you could showboat almost as well as him. He does reenactments, stuff on stage sometimes, once he was an extra in the background of some movie and he got to bump fists with one of the Chris’s, you can’t remember which. 

You like training with him. He’s never hurt you, not any worse than a bruise here or there when you haven’t moved where he expected you to, never worse than you’ve hurt yourself coming off your skateboard.

You don’t like the look of him right now.

He’s cleaned up somewhat, wearing an almost creaseless white dress shirt instead of his usual polo (though the collar is popped, so it’s still him, no robot’s that much of a douche) and his hair is combed so neat you can see the lines in it. The crown sits on his head, as always. He holds his sword loosely in his left hand, and you don’t trust him at all.

You think you’d rather jump off the roof than spar with him. You’re tempted to have a meltdown like you haven’t since you were five, to fall onto the roof and cry, proper wailing cries like you would never have the confidence to do and beg him not to make you fight while he’s wearing that, beg him to throw it away, you’ll do anything, he’s _scaring_ you, can’t he see that you hate it? 

The reason you’ll admit to resisting doing that is the heroic one. Maybe you can knock the damn thing off his head. You know you can’t sneak up on him and do it. You owe it to your brother, who is still in there somewhere, to free him of that thing.

The reason you won’t admit to is the shameful one. You don’t think it would work and you couldn’t bear to have confirmation that Bro doesn’t love you anymore. 

You wish he would talk. He always talks so much, teasing you and complimenting you when you do well, poking you in the ribs with the tip of his sword to make you laugh. You don’t know how to break the silence with the crown staring at you.

He raises an eyebrow above his shades, and you swear to God it doesn’t look right, like it’s _neater_ and you hate him so much in this moment that you manage to burn through your fear and advance to swing your sword. 

He blocks you easily, of course. He’s a grown man and you’re just Dave. He pushes you back and hits you on the arm as you stumble to get your feet steady and in proper stance again. Your hand flies to cup the place where he hit you, harder than you think he ever has before. 

He advances and you leap backwards in a fade, which usually would get you praise or acknowledgement or _something_ , but instead he attacks and you have to dodge, too shocked by how he’s being to do anything properly. 

You need to get your head in the game. He’s not attacking you properly, not like you’re an equal, just like he usually does. It’s only different because he’s not talking and he’s hitting harder, but you don’t usually get hit anyway. You can do this. He doesn’t _want_ to hurt you, he’s just forgotten all the usual human bits. Right?

You pivot, frowning with concentration as you remember your drills and aim for his ribs with your next strike. He deflects again, but this time when he follows through you’re ready and you block. 

He doesn’t smile. Or react. You don’t need him to. If it were a real fight, your enemy wouldn’t be telling you what a good job you’re doing. 

You feint for one side and turn it into a guarded position against his answering strike. You parry each others blades once, twice, and then you have to retreat because you need to shake your arms out. He follows, and though you manage to get your sword up to block, he hits so hard that your blade shatters and the top half flies across the roof.

You stare at the half a sword you’re holding for what seems like an eternity. You can’t understand—

‘Submit,’ he says. 

Your eyes widen behind your shades, you drop your useless sword and run without thinking about it. Your heart is beating so loud in your ears you almost don’t hear him when he catches you, only a few feet from the door to the stairwell. 

‘Bro, no,’ you whine. 

His arms are heavy across your chest and utterly unmovable. Your feet dangle off the ground and you kick them helplessly, trying to find purchase. His jawline against your forehead is hard and smooth. He shaved. 

‘Y-your stubble,’ you say.

‘Submit,’ he says.

‘I submit! Yield, give, uncle, I’m down, please, Bro!’

He releases you too suddenly for you to get your legs under you and you fall on your ass. He stalks down the stairs without looking back. You wipe the back of your hands across your cheeks and grab your abandoned, broken sword. In case he comes back. 

*

You can’t take much with you. You can’t let him see that anything’s unusual. He’s always watching you. Standing in doorways, staring at you as you pretend to do your homework, unable to see the words with his eyes on you but not on you. 

You wait until he goes into his room a few hours after you pretended to go to bed, and put your laptop and some clothes in a backpack. You stare at your sword. It’s not exactly useful, broken in half like this, but it’s better than nothing. And it’ll fit in your backpack now. You put your phone and wallet in your pockets and hold your shoes in your hand while you sneak out. You even remember to turn the alarm off before you open the door.

On the street, you put on your converse with shaky hands. It’s just after two in the morning and you’re absolutely too young to be out on your own like this. Anywhere you go is going to ask questions and remember you later. 

So you put off running away until the morning, when lots of kids are catching buses and walking about and shit, and get yourself to a nearby park where you can hide in an old weeping willow like you used to when you were little, imagining it was a whole secret fairy world once you passed through the leafy, curtain branches. 

It’s a long fucking night. It’s not _cold_ , in fact your phone tells you it’s 80 fucking degrees, but it’s colder than you’re used to, living on the top floor of a shitty apartment building and it’s not like the sun is out. You’ve already adjusted to Houston’s summer and you’re not liking that you probably could have thought to bring a jumper. It takes you way too long to remember the spare shirt in your bag and pull that over the one you’re wearing. 

You don’t really want to fall asleep, and you don’t want to use your phone battery either, so for the most part you just sit and wonder if you’re doing the right thing. If John’s dad will take you in. If you’re making all this up in your head. 

What are you going to say to John’s dad, anyway? _I ran away from home because my brother shaved his hobo beard_? Like you’re a baby from a YouTube video who can’t recognise his dad without it and completely overreacts? _My brother got one of those new computers that uploads thoughts but I think it’s downloaded some other shit into him and I couldn’t hack it_? 

You lean your back against the tree and wonder if there’s ever been a thought more likely to make someone cry than _you better not fucking cry_. You can’t though, you know you’re not the only one sleeping rough and you don’t want anyone to hear you. And besides … you’re taking care of yourself now. You’re putting your goddamn big boy pants on and making it through this. 

Eventually, the sun comes up. And a while after that, you start hearing normal people walking through the park. And a while after that, you get the courage to take your second shirt off, put it back in your backpack, and stroll through the park with a bob in your step like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be. 

You catch a bus to the airport. You’re not _smart_ , not like Rose, but you have some common sense. If your Bro’s still popping his collars, he’s still got his phobia of flying. And it’s the fastest way to John. If you’d known your life was going to go to shit, maybe you might have attempted to make some local friends. Nah, would’a ruined your loner cred anyway.

You thumb over your name on your “for emergencies” credit card as you wait for your phone to boot up so you can order yourself a ticket to Seattle online. You’ve never had to put through a purchase this big before. Somehow you get one around $300 and nod to yourself. $1700 left before this stops working. If this doesn’t work out, you might need it. It sounds like a buttload of money, but just looking up hotel prices has you realising how little it’s worth. 

You open up pesterchum and stare at John’s handle. It’s earlier for him. He’s not online. But by the time you land, he will be and you need to know something more specific than “Washington”. God you hope he didn't mean DC.

turntechGodhead  [TG]  has begun pestering ectoBiologist  [EB]

TG: hey so  
TG: for no particular reason  
TG: whats your address  
TG: actually shit thats not gonna fly  
TG: probs should give you a better heads up than that  
TG: i hear that dads like that kind of thing  
TG: i need  
TG: i need you to not ask questions about this and just trust me  
TG: home isnt safe and i dont know how to explain it  
TG: im flying to washington  
TG: im really fucking hoping that you werent being really internet safe and giving me a really wrong address to throw me off in case i was seedy or something  
TG: and im also really fucking hoping that your hero complex is gonna kick in because  
TG: look i could use a hero right about now  
TG: and im not one and my bro  
TG: i gotta get off the bus  
TG: ill be there in like 6 hours  
TG: well at the seattle airport anyway  
TG: so i guess  
TG: see you soon  
TG: hopefully

turntechGodhead  [TG]  has ceased pestering ectoBiologist  [EB]

Air travel is not as big a deal as you’d thought it would be. They don’t even care that you’re not an adult, though someone says if you were six months younger they’d make you pay extra and you’d have to be dropped off and picked up and shit. You nod your head like you’ve done this a million times, they don’t need to tell you. 

You get breakfast on the plane, and it must have improved since the 90s or Seinfeld was a whiny bitch. You’re not _fond_ of take off or sitting in a seat for five hours or your ears popping or the guy next to you who thinks it’s okay to take off his shoes _and_ socks. But you don’t really get why Bro is so scared of them. It’s just a bus that happens to go in the sky, with more waiting.

Arrivals is … depressing.

You see a girl not much older than you fling herself into a dad-type dude’s arms and they don’t even speak, they just hold each other like it’s the only way to communicate their love. The guy from next to you has a whole family who are all practically fighting over hugging him like they don’t know he’s the kind of rude asshole that takes his shoes and socks off on a plane. Even the ones who don’t have people waiting know exactly where to go.

You follow the crowd. There’s some guy jumping up and down and making a fool of himself where the rest of the meet and greet is happening, but you ignore the spectacle in favour of scoping out a coffee shop where you can chill and plan your next move.

Until the guy practically sports tackles you to the floor.

‘Dave!’ he says.

Holy shit, it’s John.

‘Dude, what if I’d just been some random hipster?’ you say.

‘You look exactly like your selfies!’

You laugh, and pat his shoulder. Holy shit, he’s a tank. You haven’t laughed or been hugged in too long. You’re okay with chilling on the floor for a bit.

‘John, get off the poor boy,’ a voice says, and you look up to see a man in a suit with a kind smile.

You both ignore John’s dad. The airport’s a weird fucking place, no one seems to be judging you. You saw some people doing weirder shit while you were waiting for your flight. 

‘How’d you know where to find me?’

‘There weren’t that many flights from you to me, we figured it out. I didn’t know if you were pranking me, but Dad said even if you were then it would be in poor sport not to let you.’ He lowers his voice and presses his soft cheek to yours. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Nah,’ you say. Your voice is a bit thick. _Please don’t press me, John_.

He nods and crawls off you. He doesn’t even wait until he’s sitting up properly to offer you his hand to pull you up. You’re … not gonna let go of him, you don’t think. 

*

They don’t make you talk about it. You keep expecting them to interrogate you, or even just _ask_ , but they’re both kind of pretending that you’re just visiting them for a holiday or something. You knew John wasn’t especially about thinking about unpleasant things and apparently that’s a learned behaviour. 

You’re not too concerned about it yet. You’ve been given one of those blankets with sleeves, a big bowl of proper, stove-cooked popcorn and a boy you’ve had a crush on for like four years to cuddle up to while you marathon Nic Cage movies and attempt to track whether he’s the good or bad kind of insane. 

Mr Egbert makes you home cooked breakfast, lunch and dinner. He’s taken time off work, though he’s insisting it’s no trouble. John insists that as well, joking that you’re getting him out of school at exactly the right time.

*

You realise you should have clued them in when Bro catches up to you.

You and John are in the lounge, debating whether Meryl Streep was hot in the movie you just watched (she _was_ , she’s not even that old probably and _no you don’t have mommy issues_ ) when there’s a sharp rap on the door.

You both fall silent, though it’s not that startling a thing to hear, as you listen to Mr Egbert’s dress shoes distinctly cross the kitchen tile and then muffle on the carpet as he answers the door. 

‘Good morning,’ Mr Egbert says.

‘Good morning,’ Bro answers, his voice too smooth. ‘I’m Dave’s brother.’

You can’t breathe. Your face feels weird and your heart’s beating too fast in your ears again.

‘Is that him?’ John whispers. ‘He didn’t sound like that last time …’

You stand up slowly and shake off your blankets. You want to see him, but you don’t know how.

‘Come with me,’ John whispers, taking your hand. You can hear Bro and Mr Egbert talking as he leads you to the stairway. When you get high enough, you can look through the balusters and see over Mr Egbert’s head to see Bro in the doorway.

‘That’s not your Bro,’ John says, his voice unsure.

He’s only seen Bro in selfies, in one or two video chats, copying your ironically expressionless face with just a bit too much pantomime to let himself be taken seriously, one time holding you up by the ankle with you both straight faced (that one was your phone background for ages, until Jade sent you a picture where her eyes reflected the ocean and you had never seen anything so beautiful), him bursting into your room to hug you and kiss your cheeks with big wet mwahs because he always said the greatest joy in raising a kid was embarrassing him. 

This isn’t the guy who always had stains on his polos but never learned not to wear white. This isn’t the guy who once sewed the puppet he was working on to his jeans and then thought that was funny so wore them like that for a full week, dragging you along to the supermarket because it was even funnier if other people saw it too. This isn’t the guy who takes you to see every chick flick at the cinema with him because it’s bullshit that stories that value friendship and love are seen as lesser, who laughed so loudly at the new Bridget Jones movie that he got asked to leave. 

He’s wearing a red suit, which should make him look like an asshole, except you’ve never seen him in a suit that fit properly (the one he wore to that funeral was way too short in the sleeves and he slouched around the whole day as if he could hide his height) and he mostly looks imposing. His white shirt still has the collar popped, but instead of looking like that thing your idiot brother probably doesn’t even think is cool, it shows off his throat which looks long and thin without its usual scruffy half-beard and with him standing tall like that.

His hair is perfectly combed, and the crown sits on his head, perfectly matching the red suit. He says something to Mr Egbert, who laughs. You can’t hear the words from up here, just the smoothness of his voice, all rough, exaggerated cowboy gone. You bet he’s saying every word perfectly.

‘The crown did something to him,’ you whisper to John. ‘It’s him, but it’s not _him_. He’s not safe.’

‘What do we do?’

Ironically, you think that your real brother would have a harder time convincing Mr Egbert to hand you over. 

‘We run, I guess.’

‘My dad …’

‘Maybe Bro’ll just follow us,’ you say. 

You have no idea what he’s going to do to Mr Egbert, but you don’t think he wants him. He wants you, for some reason.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not so much Bro in this one, but playing with those same themes of fun versus tension. My aim here is to get you a little panicky about when shit is going to hit the fan, so if that's a feeling you don't want ... maybe have a browse through my more wholesome fics! 
> 
> I've written a side chapter about what happens from Dadbert's perspective once Bro rocks up there and I'll post that in a few days too. That one's a special one none of us should admit we want.

It’s more expensive to fly to New York than it was to Seattle, and worse, there’s two of you. You call Rose from the Seattle airport and tell her what’s going on, watching John’s reaction to hearing your story as well. 

‘He got one of those Crockercorp crown things,’

‘The Thoughtwave Tiaras?’

‘Yeah, except not for girls.’

‘Tiaras are gendered items?’

‘Not the fucking issue, Rose! It’s a crown, okay?’

John covers his mouth to keep from laughing and you kick at his shin.

‘And like obviously they read your thoughts, that’s how they work, right? But they’re not just reading, they’re revising. Like Betty C is going through Bro’s frankly dingy thought-cave with a red pen and correcting all the bits she don’t like. And there’s a lot, I mean, duh, Bro’s gross, but he’s my _Bro_ and I don’t think our evil overlords have prioritised … love.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘I’m saying he’s like a well dressed T-800 and he’s out to fuckin’ get us. Can John and I crash at your place?’

Rose is quiet for a while. You grip the phone to your face with both hands to keep yourself from shaking. John presses his toes to yours in a vaguely reassuring way. He’s not, like, crash-hot at comfort. 

‘You’re serious,’ Rose says.

‘Yeah.’

‘Then yes, obviously. I’ll pester you my address. You said he found you at John’s house?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Well, obviously the credit card is one thing, but he didn’t doorknock on every home in Washington until he found John. Write my address down and then ditch your phones, both of them. We’ll get you new ones, for now, they connect to the Internet and can be traced.’

‘Obviously,’ you repeat. You hadn’t thought of any of that. You kinda thought Bro was just … like that. He finds you, that’s what he does.

‘Good. I don’t know where my mother is, but regardless I can get you inside until she returns. Do you need money?’

‘I have enough to get us to New York, but …’

‘I’ll have a car pick you up from the airport. I’d come myself, but I think I’ll prepare things here.’

‘What’s she saying?’ John asks. 

‘Stuff,’ you say unhelpfully. 

He kicks you and you crack a smile. 

‘I’m still on the phone,’ Rose reminds you. ‘Do you need me to organise the rest of your life for you or is merely most of it sufficient. I have all morning, it wouldn’t be a trouble.’

‘Thanks babes,’ you say. You wink at John to show how successfully you’re messing with Rose. ‘Love ya.’

‘Mr Strider. My fainting couch is across the room. I shall have to swoon upon the floor.’

John looks at the ground and prods your toes with his again, smiling. Huh, you may have just got a two-for-one friend love declaration there. You punch him and he looks up at you, still smiling like a dork. 

‘A’right, fuck off, Lalonde, John and I have a plane to catch.’

*

You and John have a lot of fun trying to piss off the driver, but the dude’s a stone cold professional. You think he’s pretty glad to hand you off at Rose’s house. It turns out that her strange humblebrags haven’t actually been fabricated. ( _It is so inconvenient having to organise sherpas should I want to traverse the ludicrous distance between my room and the kitchen_. Yeah, no shit, Lalonde.)

She doesn’t bother with the tour, saying that she probably hasn’t even seen all the rooms anyway, but takes you straight to the kitchen. You’re kind of loving how everyone’s reaction to you being, well, not _upset_ , but maybe a scooch out of your comfort zone, is to make you food. Rose is no Mr Egbert, but she can put chicken nuggets on a tray and turn an oven on.

‘Your kitchen is organised wrong,’ John says, by way of complimenting the house.

‘Nice pad,’ you correct, nudging him.

John opens a cupboard and shakes his head.

‘Can I reorganise it? Seriously, this isn’t intuitive at all.’

‘Please do, it will baffle Mother. While Egbert loses his pretty little mind, how about you fill me in with the rest of the story, Dave.’

You hop on one of the kitchen stools and lean on the bench. It’s a massive kitchen and kind of clinically clean, but you can see how it could potentially be homey if someone actually lived here.

‘Alright, so what you’ve got to know about Bro is that he probably shouldn’t have adopted me.’

‘As first lines go, consider me hooked,’ Rose says.

‘Shut up. Here’s the thing. He was too young to look after a kid. He still can’t look after his damn self. We made it work, he said there were plenty of normal parents out there who didn’t have a clue what they were doing either, at least he chose me. And the scary bit with the me dying if he dropped me or whatever was already over so like how bad could he really be?’

‘Plenty,’ Rose says darkly.

‘Are you gonna keep interrupting me?’ you ask.

‘I thought the natural interjection was nice,’ John says, standing up with an armful of plates. He puts them on the counter and bends back down to clear out the rest of the cupboard. His voice echoes a little bit. ‘No one wants to just hear you, Dave.’

You look at Rose, challenging her to agree with him. Her lips are pressed tight together to keep from laughing, but her eyes give away the game. No wonder she prefers text or voice chat, her poker face is rubbish. 

‘Okay, whatever. The point is, he’s useless but mostly in the fun way? Like, he’d probably be a lot better off as an uncle, if you know what I mean. He’s not … whatever was chasing after me at Egberts. He doesn’t try and hurt me.’

Rose’s smile is long gone. She looks concerned. You don’t like her looking like that, like she’s treating you seriously. But you can’t make the mistake you made at John’s again. 

‘Where’s your mom?’ you ask.

Rose sighs and tucks one leg under the other, hand going up to fix her hair. It doesn’t need fixing.

‘I never really know. I’ve tried calling her, but reception is terrible here. I think she’s somewhere in the house. She’ll show up eventually.’

You really don’t know what you expect Rose’s mom to do that she isn’t providing just by having high fences and a remote location, but you think you’d feel better with an adult around. That’s probably messed up, given the circumstances.

*

There’s enough guest rooms that you and John could have your own double bed each, and an en suite. Rose doesn’t insist, though, and she doesn’t protest when John’s response to seeing the guest room she indicates is to pull all the bedding off it and start dragging it back to her room. You’re just glad you didn’t have to make that call. You’re not being split up from them. 

Rose heats up frozen pizza for dinner and provides a huge assortment of candy from her basically magic pantry. She doesn’t seem bothered about providing for you guys, but you really wish her mom would come home already. 

It’s stupid, but you can’t shake the feeling that Bro’s like … corrupting people. Like you and John and Rose are all alone in this house and he’s got the rest of the world and if you were to step outside they’d all be on his side like zombies. You need to stop watching all movies. 

‘Wanna watch a movie?’ John asks after dinner. 

‘Something light?’ you suggest. 

‘I have a few that might be acceptable,’ Rose says, smiling. 

She has a fucking theatre room. Rich people. She has a million movies and a room that’s completely dark and has movie style chairs and it looks like no one’s ever used it. You sit on John’s lap, and when he shoves you off for having a bony butt, you sit on Rose’s instead and you watch _Ace Ventura_. 

‘How would you improve this?’ Rose asks.

‘Not enough horses,’ you say immediately. ‘I dunno, maybe the animals shouldn’t be so scripted. Jim Carey in a room trying to work with animals and the animals have no training, that’s a movie I’d watch.’

‘It literally can’t be improved on, it’s the perfect film,’ John says. He’s playing with your shoelace, poking your foot with the plastic end bit.

‘What if there was an intermission, where Gregorian monks chanted about the dangers of consumerism for twenty minutes?’ Rose suggests.

‘I always thought it would be funny to make a movie where the intermission is longer than the actual movie.’

‘That’s very sexy of you,’ Rose says.

‘I don’t understand you two at all,’ John says. 

You watch the movie in silence for a bit longer.

‘What if he was wearing his Grinch costume, but there was no reason for it?’ Rose suggests.

‘God, I’m so fucking in love with you,’ you tell her. 

‘Mother will be thrilled I’ve found a homeless boy to settle down with.’

You steal her headband and put it in your own hair. She’s totally blushing. Cute. John pokes you a bit firmer with your shoelace and you look up at him. 

‘What?’ you ask. ‘You didn’t let me sit on your lap, bro, you don’t get love confessions, those are the rules.’

‘And how did you win over this young man, my mother will ask me,’ Rose says. ‘Ah, well I didn’t expel him from sitting on top of me. As is the tradition in finding a husband.’

‘Fine, you can sit on me again,’ John grumbles. ‘You _do_ have a bony butt, though, so I better get some really good love confessions out of it.’

Rose wraps her arms around your waist possessively and you grin. You love your friends so much.

*

Rose’s mom still isn’t around when you wake up. You get to see Rose’s makeup smudged and her hair all crazy and sticky outy, though, so that’s distracting. And then John challenges you to make a better fort than the one he slapped together while Rose was showering, so that’s pretty distracting too. 

There’s so much to do, to catch up on. You tease Rose about her wardrobe and swap glasses with John and read to each other from Mills and Boon novels. You name all the wizards in her lounge room before you get bored and decide not to do the whole house like you’d planned. Rose makes puppets out of her socks and performs _The Lion King_ from memory and you try not to think about why that makes your chest hurt. At least the fact that she’s clearly forgotten most of the major plot points of the movie is distracting.

It’s not until a friendly chime sounds on Rose’s phone and she tells you someone’s at the gate that you realise that you still haven’t seen her mom and the world didn’t hit pause while you did, it kept right on turning and you don’t know what to do about that. 

Rose tries to check the camera on her phone, the one connected to the gate, but it’s broken. It wasn’t broken when you and John arrived. Rose slips her phone back into her pocket and looks at you both seriously. 

‘Come on,’ she says. She holds out her hands. 

You’re a strange triangle, Rose in the front pulling you and John behind her. You’re holding John’s hand too. He didn’t tease you when you started it. He’s holding on just as tight as you want. It kinda hurts. 

She takes you all the way up to the top of her house, to the observatory, and you press your hands to the window and look down at the driveway.

‘They can’t get past the gate, right?’ John says.

‘Bro could,’ you say. ‘He did parkour. Stunts. He could climb anything.’

‘Faster than we walked up here?’ Rose asks.

‘Yeah.’

It’s dark and the world presents itself in greyscale. The forest presses in on all sides, isolating you from the world with the jagged shapes of pine. The shadow where Rose’s house interrupts the moonlight is dark on her driveway, cutting across the silvery gravel with such a defined edge that it almost looks like a second building. There’s no movement out there. The trees are still. 

‘Could it have just been your mom?’ John whispers.

‘Maybe,’ Rose says. 

You’re quiet for a bit, so quiet you start breathing in sync with each other. You don’t like being so far up, you wouldn’t know at all if it was just Rose’s mom, you can’t stand not knowing. 

‘Should we—’ you start at the same time John says, ‘Can we—’

You both laugh nervously and he reaches out to touch your arm.

‘Let’s go downstairs,’ Rose says. 

*

You sit on the stairs in a way that reminds you uncomfortably of doing the same thing at John’s house. You all stare in the direction of the front door, none of you daring to get any closer. 

‘We would have heard someone open the door, right?’ John asks.

‘Maybe,’ Rose murmurs. She looks at you. ‘Yes, probably.’

You don’t want her false reassurances. You want her to be right. 

It’s the strangest thing, she’s younger than you (by a whole fucking day, you earned it) but you still trust her to make things all turn out okay. She just _does_. You message her and even though you’re typing like you’re cool as a cucumber, chopped up all refreshing and chucked in lemonade for a bit of fancy, she sees through it and digs down to the root of your problems and just _fixes_ them. You don’t even have to tell her that you’re not okay, or that you want her help. You can outright say you don’t want it. 

You think that’s probably why she believed you immediately about this. You asked.

‘What’s the play, Lalonde?’ you ask. 

She smiles wryly, goes to open her mouth and then suddenly freezes. She holds her hand up to stall your questions.

‘Mom,’ she whispers. She turns around and looks up the stairs. You and John follow her lead.

Somehow, Rose neglected to mention that her mom is Morticia fucking Addams. 

She stands at the top of the stairs, hip popped in a way that honestly looks uncomfortable, holding a martini glass in one hand and staring down at the three of you. Her face is unreadable thanks to the light being entirely behind her, leaving you with the uncomfortable impression that she doesn’t have a face. It doesn’t detract from the intensity with which you know she’s looking at you.

Rose, much to your surprise, scrambles to her feet and runs up the stairs to hug her mom around the waist. It’s an awkward hug, you don’t think Rose is capable of anything else, and you worry absurdly that her fuzzy jumper is going to ruin her mom’s crisp lab-chic dress. 

‘What is it, honey?’ her mom asks. 

‘I am going to tell you something that sounds completely fabricated with complete awareness of the fact that I have in the past made up stories. I ask that you take my recent abandonment of this childish plea for attention into account before dismissing the reality of what I am about to tell you.’

‘Rosie …’ 

‘Dave’s brother has been possessed by a technogeist.’

‘That can’t be a real word,’ John mutters to you.

‘Hundred bucks she was waiting to whip that out the whole time,’ you whisper back.

‘Rosie, it’s been a long day,’ her mom starts.

‘He bought a Betty Crocker Tiaratop and has gradually become corrupted by its influence,’ Rose insists.

Mrs Lalonde straightens and places her martini glass carefully on the bannister. 

‘Okay,’ she says. 

Rose hesitates for a moment, as if unsure what to make of the sudden acceptance, but then continues.

‘We think he’s coming here. He followed Dave to John’s house. I made them ditch their phones so they couldn’t be tracked, but I may have overlooked something and I know what Dave’s brother was like, he was competent before corruption and he had a certain …’

‘I know Strider,’ Mrs Lalonde says. ‘When did the boys get here?’

‘Lunchtime-ish on Tuesday.’

‘Fuck,’ Mrs Lalonde says, matter-of-fact. ‘Sorry, honey, but … No, that was an appropriate reaction. There’s a time for swearing, my love, and we’ve reached it.’

Despite the circumstances, you have to fight a smile at that. 

‘Bro’s still him, I think,’ you say. ‘Like little bits. And he was always super nervous of flying.’

‘Could’a made it in a car trip by now,’ Mrs Lalonde says. ‘Johnnie’s a Washington boy, right?’

‘ _John_ , yes,’ Rose says.

‘You can call me Johnnie,’ John says. 

You snort. Rose looks kinda peeved. 

Mrs Lalonde takes Rose’s hand and pulls her down the staircase. You pull John up with you so you aren’t crouching like gremlins when they reach you. Mrs Lalonde looks like a normal (if stupid-hot) mom when she isn’t looming over you.

‘Okay, sweethearts, we’re gonna get you guys all safe and cosy in my lab, m’kay? Ain’t nobody gettin’ in there without Momma Lalonde’s say so and she’s a bad bitch when it comes to misbehaving ‘puters, don’t you worry about that!’

Wow, okay, so less Morticia Addams and more Jersey Shore. You might be a little bit in love.

Mrs Lalonde leads you across the hall and you keep your eyes on the door the whole time. She goes into a room you hadn’t paid any attention to (there’s not exactly a shortage of rooms, if you’d been at all willing to be apart from Rose and John you could have had a kickass game of hide and seek) and taps numbers into a key pad. 

‘You think you can fix this?’ Rose asks.

‘Let’s just say it’s been on my radar for a lil while,’ Mrs Lalonde says. ‘I got a shot. And, failing that, a shot _gun_. Lol, nah, I got a rifle, but that’s very last resort! An’ I’ll aim for the tiaratop.’

‘That’s on his head,’ you point out. 

Mrs Lalonde doesn’t appear to hear you. 

‘How do we know what’s going on?’ John asks.

‘Whadaya mean, munchkin?’

‘Like, if we’re hidden away and you’re maybe fighting a terminator, what do we do if …’

‘I’m not gonna lose,’ Mrs Lalonde says, smiling kindly. She ruffles John’s hair. He doesn’t seem to know what to do with that. You’re trying really hard not to let yourself giggle out of anxiety and the absurdity of everything.

She leads you out of the room and into the kitchen. She reaches into a pot plant on top of the microwave and causes the whole fridge to slide out dramatically, exposing a hidden staircase underneath. 

‘This is ridiculous,’ Rose says calmly.

‘There’s another entrance through Jaspers’ tomb, that’s the one you’ll wanna leave through if anything goes wobbly, m’kay?’

‘I told you,’ Rose says, stepping down onto the first step with zero regard for the fact that she’s about to walk down a pitch black spiral staircase. ‘I’ve been saying for years that my mother is insane and that I should be relieved of the burden of her nonsense.’

‘Thanks, Mrs L,’ you say, starting to follow Rose, holding John’s hand to keep him from being left behind.

‘My pleasure, Dirky!’

You don’t correct her, biting down on a smile at the thought of teasing Bro for knowing someone like her well enough to be petnamed, for being petnamed at all. Then you remember that you probably won’t be teasing him for anything. You tug on John’s hand and put your other hand on Rose’s shoulder, following her into the darkness.

*

The staircase went on forever, and the “lab” feels more like a church, all tall ceilings and ominous lighting, just with weird cubes that look a mix between legos and servers instead of pews. Rose goes straight to the wall of computer monitors where the pulpit should be and starts typing into a keyboard. You get hung up staring at a literal pony that Rose is completely ignoring. 

‘John, is that a pony?’

‘It’s probably not real.’

The pony snorts. You and John look at each other. You really feel like perhaps there’s been enough bullshit this week. 

Rose continues to tak-tak at the keyboard. You tap her on the shoulder.

‘Her name is Maplehoof,’ Rose says. ‘I wondered what had happened to her. She follows mother like a ridiculous puppy, the traitor.’

‘Can I …’

‘Yes, you may pat the pony.’

You immediately get yourself acquainted with Maplehoof, approaching her slowly so as not to startle her. When she seems just as judgemental of you and your unnecessary caution as you would expect from an honorary Lalonde, you pet her nose carefully. _So. Fucking. Soft._

‘What are you doing?’ John asks Rose. 

‘My mother said that she saw this coming. Perhaps she has information in here.’

‘Why are you typing so much?’

‘Because I can’t get into her files. I’m leaving my own record of what has happened so far.’

John looks at you with panic on his face.

‘We’re never leaving this lab,’ he says. 

*

Rose finishes her essay. She still can’t find out how to access Mrs Lalonde’s database. You have no idea why a computer in an underground church in the middle of absolute nowhere needs a password, but it does. You do your part by guessing “password”, “Password1” and “Rose1995”. None of them work. Rose takes your cue and guesses “Jaspers1999”, making a half-hearted joke about him being the real favourite child. You’re really glad it doesn’t work.

‘I’ve been studying coding,’ John says after a while of you and Rose guessing stuff.

‘Alright,’ you scoff, sliding the keyboard over to him.

Last time he talked to you about it, he was worse than useless. He stares at the computer for thirty seconds straight without touching anything. You and Rose watch.

‘Okay, yeah, I don’t know how to get into a password protected computer.’

Rose slaps a hand to her face with enough violence that you wince at the sound. She drags it off with exaggerated drama and you wonder if it’d be cute and/or charming to kiss the pink mark she left behind or if you’d just come across as a douchebag. 

‘Okay, this is intolerable,’ Rose says. ‘We need to find out what’s happening.’

*

So when Mrs Lalonde said “Jaspers’ tomb”, she meant a literal fucking tomb. Another secret passageway opens up and you all try to shove the slab that the cat coffin rests on back into place, but it must be another lever or button or _something_ because that son-bitch is not going anywhere.

It’s dark. There aren’t many lights on in the Lalonde mansion but there’s no other light at all, so they stand out. No streetlights, no other houses, just this one place. The rest of the world could be dead. Taken over. You just wouldn’t know. 

A car drives past on the road, headlights cutting strobe-like through the trees. You take a breath, tell yourself to stop being so dramatic, and turn back to look at John and Rose. You’re not alone. You need to remember this.

‘What do we—’ you start to ask, but you’re interrupted by the sound of a gunshot, the explosion bouncing off the walls of the house.

None of you were moving, but in the instant after that you all freeze on a level that feels significant, somehow. It feels like every muscle in your body is tense, is occupied with being still. 

John recovers first, and tugs on your sleeve to get you all to crouch down. You’re not sure why you go along with it, but it feels right. You shuffle closer to them, feeling absurdly like a chicken despite the seriousness of the atmosphere.

‘You don’t fire unless you have something in your sight,’ Rose breathes. ‘You don’t point a gun anywhere you wouldn’t want a bullet. You don’t take the safety off unless you want it to go off.’

You stare at her, waiting for her to fix everything, somehow. 

She doesn’t. 

You hold onto Rose and John’s hands and crouch in the shadow of the mausoleum, waiting for something, anything to happen.


End file.
